


The Thick of It

by blamography



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamography/pseuds/blamography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Van Horne has bought Red a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thick of It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophia_sol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophia_sol/gifts).



Carmine “Red” Zuigiber let Van Horne (Newsweek) buy her another drink (an Irish Car Bomb, she told him, and he had smiled in the scared sort of way one does when realizing a woman is quite possibly fiercer than oneself – they had only been on this godforsaken island for a few days and even the thought of car bombs made him shudder). She had walked up to him like the female lead of one of those forties detective novels and he hadn’t been able to tear his gaze away, even during the brawl that ensued as a result of a particular waiter’s spontaneous declaration of allegiance to the Proto-Nationalist Insurgence League and the spontaneous manifestation of quite a few weapons in the hands of quite a few people.

“I do love being in the middle of these things,” she said, crossing her legs. The hem of her dress slipped up. She swallowed half her drink and did not blink. “Really makes me feel alive. It’s the small things, you know. Can’t sweat them.”

Van Horne nodded as if this were normal mid-war drinking talk. He was, though, actually very sweaty and fixated on small things such as: first, the sound of gunfire behind them, second, the bead of sweat slipping down Red’s collarbone, third, cold steel pressing against the back of his head.

It was the bartender. “I’m very sorry but I’m going to have to kill you,” he said, and he did sound quite contrite. “I’m a part of the Immediate Socialist Seperatist Movement and we rather don’t like foreigners and all. Shame, I’ve read your pieces.”

“He’s quite good,” Red said, resting her arm over the bar. She scanned the mayhem with flickering, uninterested eyes. “Very. Do you like your job, Van Horne?”

“Er, yes, quite.” He shifted and the tip of the gun shifted, too. “Do you really have to do that?”

Red shrugged at no one in particular. “I love it. Nothing gets the blood running like conflict.” Another long sip. Her throat bobbed. She uncrossed her legs and wiggled forwards on the seat.

Before Van Horne could reply, the bouncer stormed in and roared something about Reunification and Nationalists and Seperatists and Religion, and it was the Religion bit that finally did it, but the bartender charged forwards with his silly looking gun and Red watched like it wasn’t really happening. Van Horne knew without a doubt that she was the fiercest thing he’d ever seen. He decided this from the comfort of the private jet that flew him home an hour later.


End file.
